


all too well

by tobeconvincedoflove



Series: maybe we got lost in translation [2]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Fluff and Angst, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, I still havent' figured out how to take, M/M, Post Break-up, enjolras is tired, maybe make-up idk, there's some self-destructive stuff in here I think so watch out friends, this is a really shitty sequel but idk i just wanted to write it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-29
Updated: 2016-05-29
Packaged: 2018-07-10 21:12:48
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,327
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7007179
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tobeconvincedoflove/pseuds/tobeconvincedoflove
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Enjolras is fine. He loves his work, his roommates aren't bad, and he's running and boxing and tutoring and doing everything else he can. He's fine.</p><p>He's not.</p><p>(This is a sequel to setting fire to our insides for fun. Title is from the identically named Taylor Swift song.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	all too well

**Author's Note:**

> Enjolras isn't doing so hot at the beginning guys. So watch out for that. I also couldn't figure out how to end this so I just kind of kept going and going and I think the ending is way too fluffy and happy but this has taken me so long to write I give up. Please let me know what you think.

Here’s how it goes down: 

Enjolras leaves almost exactly a month after that night. He finishes his dissertation in three days and has it approved in three weeks; there’s a small celebration that breaks up quickly because Grantaire is having a bad night and they need to be there. So it’s just Combeferre, Courfeyrac, Enjolras and a grocery-store cake the night before he leaves to do his post-doc at MIT. 

It’s okay, really. Sure, his best friends for the past seven years aren’t really talking to him because even though they’re not taking sides they’re taking sides because one of them has it so much better, is so much stronger, than the other. It’s fine. Grantaire needs them, and Enjolras is the strong one. 

He’s not even lonely. Yeah, he’s miles away from everything he’s ever known, and he’s living in a shitty apartment with people he doesn’t really know but works with. He guesses that he likes them okay. His roommates’ names are Ellie and James and it’s actually Ellie who gets him involved tutoring and boxing in Chinatown. So he divides his day into neat sections: go for a run, shower and eat, go to work, tutor, box, sleep and/or skype with Les Amis, repeat. 

Even though he has weekends off, Enjolras makes it a point not to go back to New York. Grantaire needs space, and maybe if they both can be better than everything can go back to the way it was before. Not before as in when they were… but before like it was before that. Before everything fell into place and then shattered back into pieces. 

It’s why, about a month and a half into his research gig, Combeferre and Courfeyrac come to Boston. Enjolras had no idea they were coming until they were there (but apparently Ellie did, the traitorous bastard) in the boxing gym at ten o’clock at night. 

“What are you doing here?” Enjolras’s voice is shocked and breathless, and he immediately goes to hug his closest friends, forgetting the sweat that’s plastering his hair to his face and that’s all over his shirt. In the corner, Ellie cackles a little, before going back to sparring with her friend.

“If you won’t come back to us, I guess we’ll have to come to you,” is all Courfeyrac says, still hugging Enjolras tightly. 

“You look thinner,” Combeferre tuts once Courfeyrac releases him, but also pulls the sweaty, shorter man in for a hug. “But stronger, in a way.” 

“I mean, he has been boxing and running a fuckton,” Courfeyrac argues, pulling at one of Enjolras’s arms. “He’s got to be hiding the muscle somewhere.” 

“It helps. It shuts my brain off and shit,” Enjolras mumbles, but Combeferre just laughs, slinging an arm around his shoulder. 

“We’re just giving you a hard time. Come on; I’ve heard you know the best, cheap places in Chinatown to eat at.” 

“I’ll take you there. I want to hear about that protest you went to last week,” Enjolras responds. Combeferre lectures Enjolras the entire way there about how it’s winter and if he doesn’t wear a hat and gloves it’ll be his fault when he gets sick. 

It’s only when they’re sitting down at a table that Combeferre gives Enjolras the look of death. The one that means they aren’t just there for shits and giggles. 

“Oh no,” Enjolras says, putting his head in his hands. He knows what’s coming.

“How have you been, Enjolras, seriously?” Combeferre asks, forcing Enjolras to meet his gaze. He knows that Enjolras is incapable of not cracking under that exact stare. It’s why he uses it. 

“I’m… I’ve been fine.” There’s no force behind his words, and Enjolras has to look down, especially now that Courfeyrac is joining in with the important looks and pointed phrases. 

“Bullshit. We know that Les Amis haven’t been… and I know that you’re not fine.” There’s a heat behind Courfeyrac’s words that forces Enjolras to remember that first week, when he couldn’t do anything but alternate between crying and working. He’d never felt more broken than that first week without Grantaire. His entire inside was cut up by the pieces of broken glass imbedded by the lack of him, and he hates how he still loves him so much. He misses him more than anything. 

“Then I’m okay.” It’s only a little bit choked. 

“So you don’t miss him?” It’s not even Combeferre being clinical with him, like he was up until Enjolras left. It’s Courfeyrac who decides to go there. 

“Of course I do. But I’m fine. It’s getting better.” Is Enjolras lying through his teeth? Not exactly. Sure, he still wakes up and immediately tries to find Grantaire in the bed next to him, but he’s not blaming himself. In the end, he couldn’t have done any more. And if Grantaire will be healthier, happier without him, then it’s worth it. Right?

“Well, we all miss you. Grantaire is having a show in Boston next month, right around Valentine’s Day, so we’ll all be here. You should show us around,” Combeferre says gently. 

“He’s going to be here?” Dammit, that sounds so weak. 

“Yeah. We’re all taking a few days off to be here and shit, so you’ll get to see them all. I think a few of them are going to be stopping in before then, as well,” Combeferre comments, nonchalantly picking up his chopsticks. 

“That’s going to be cool. Oh, wait—“ Enjolras cuts himself off with a string of swear words. 

“What?” Courfeyrac asks immediately, a mouth full of dumplings.

“I have a huge research presentation the Tuesday after it. I’m going to be swamped,” Enjolras groans. “It’s in front of an entire conference.” 

“First, how dare you not tell us?” Combeferre says. “Second, it’ll be fine. I’m sure you’ll be ready well before then.” 

“What if I’m not? They’re going to flay me if I fuck this up for R.” It’s the first time that the honest fear of their friends has crept from Enjolras’s subconscious to his mouth. He’s still threadbare, and that terrifies Courfeyrac. He’s known Enjolras for so much of his life, and he has never been as openly Not Okay as he has in the past two months. It’s not Enjolras, and that stops Courfeyrac’s heart in its tracks. 

“They’re your friends. They’ll understand. And it’s not your fault if R isn’t okay.” Combeferre reaches a hand across the table, and he’s shocked when Enjolras doesn’t immediately shy away from the contact. Enjolras smiles softly, but it falls so quickly Courfeyrac won’t ever be sure if it was truly there. 

“How is he?” Enjolras picks at his food with one hand. It causes a clawing ache in his chest to even think about Grantaire, but he needs to get past this. “How are they?”

“He’s doing a lot better. Um, he’s been on a few dates, and he’s been painting a lot. Everyone else is pretty standard—work, meetings, and the like. None of us have really stepped up to lead Les Amis, though.” It’s obvious that Courfeyrac knew how he was going to answer that question long before it was asked.

“I think we need to focus more on something like the Chinatown tutoring. It’s all great to protest and host rallies, but I think we should maintain a closer involvement in actively helping the community. Work with tutoring organizations to help underprivileged kids instead of yelling about it. It’s not the time for that kind of action right now.” There. Combeferre can’t quite place what it is, but there’s a hint of Enjolras in there somewhere behind the newly razor sharp line of his jaw and cheekbones, his short undercut, and his body that has no visible bit of anything besides bone and wiry muscle. There’s still the dark, emptiness in his eyes and the dark smudges underneath them, but Enjolras is eating and talking and it’s so much better than it was before he left. 

“You really like it, don’t you?” Courfeyrac’s voice is soft. 

“I love it. The kids are amazing, and some of them are in really shitty situations. Luckily, none of it comes to the tutoring center—I think the volunteers actually all go to the boxing gym at the same time at least once a week or something like that,” Enjolras explains. “It’s a really good program, filled with Harvard and MIT and Wellesley-educated people who love teaching and working with kids.”

“We’ll look into similar programs in New York. Now, tell me more about this research presentation.” Just like that, the math nerd that Courfeyrac loves is out in full force.

:: ::

¬

Too soon, Combeferre and Courfeyrac are gone again. Enjolras continues the way that he has—late nights, enough coffee that Combeferre would skin him alive if he knew, and he keeps running and boxing. He just loves that when his heart is pounding and he’s beating the shit out of a bag or the pavement or someone else’s gloves he feels _strong_. It feels like his entire world hasn’t fallen to shit and that he can protect those he cares about, that he’s taking the broken glass that cut up R and makes sure that it doesn’t hurt anyone else who doesn’t deserve it. 

He is not broken.

:: ::

Is it early or late? Enjolras doesn’t really know. It’s the beginning of February and R is going to be here in two weeks and he’s got so much work to do and he knows Joly and Feuilly will be here soon because of a conference or something and he’s really falling behind.

“Fun fact: if you don’t stop it with the expresso shots I will drug your next mug of coffee with my own melatonin,” Ellie calls as he walks out the door to go to his favorite coffee shop. 

“She ain’t kidding,” James adds in, sighing as the door slips shut. They all work together, and think the others are incredibly brilliant, but they know Enjolras has been through some shit. They know it’s not affecting their work—Enjolras is fucking leading their research and is the brainchild behind every single major breakthrough they’ve had—but they genuinely like the dude. He’s fierce and loyal and he isn’t afraid to fight, verbally or physically. That particular trait has come in handy with both professors and the assholes at the bars on the rare nights they coax him out into Boston.

“I’ll be back soon with the calculations for tomorrow. We’re so close.” With that, Enjolras shuts the door quietly behind him. 

“Doesn’t he have friends coming in from New York today, too?” James asks Ellie, throwing a failed calculation’s paper into the trash with ease.

“Ah shit. He’s gotta sleep. It’s been a few days.”

“More like weeks. Or months. Maybe even years.”

:: ::

“Drink this.” Hours later, Enjolras looks up from his notebook. He is so damn close to proving the last piece of this research project, and he will not disappoint his professor, his roommates, his friends, Grantaire. He will prove that he is exactly as he was before everything fell apart, that he is as strong in front of a podium as he is in front of a punching bag.

“What?” Is the only thing out of his mouth, until Enjolras squints from behind his glasses and sees… “Joly?” 

“I wish I could say I was surprised that you forgot, but you look like it’s finals and the week before a protest rolled into one,” Feuilly muses, sitting down next to Enjolras. His hands immediately start closing up Enjolras’s laptop, rounding up his papers into the correct folders, and shoving everything into his backpack.

“I’m not joking. Drink the tea and then we’re going back to your apartment. Your roommates have been texting us since we got on the train two hours ago.” Joly’s voice is serious. 

“I’m sorry. I just lost track of time because—“ 

“Because you’re worried about when they’re all here. Have you even talked to most of them, let alone Grantaire, since you left?” Feuilly asks. 

“I’ve skyped with Marius and Cosette and Eponine and Bahorel and Jehan at least a few times, but not directly with Bossuet, unless he was with you. Grantaire and I decided that it would be a good idea to give it some space,” Enjolras explains.

“That’s between you and him. Not everyone else,” Feuilly reminds him. “I know that we’re all close with you and R, but you’re not allowed to make the decision that you need us less than he does. It’s not fair to either of you.” It’s not the first time that Enjolras has heard that phrase. 

“How many days straight have you been up?” Whoops. Joly looks at Enjolras like he’s scarily close to taking his vitals right here, right now. “How have you been eating? How many shots of expresso did you have today?”

“Eight, healthy and enough, and five,” Enjolras responds, taking a sip of the tea. “I’m pretty sure there’s at least one melatonin in this tea, though, so I don’t think it’s a problem.”

“He’s not wrong,” Feuilly says to Joly. “From what I hear, you’re pretty much done with the project anyways.” 

“We still have to make the actual presentation and get the math fully vetted by our advisors and so much more. There’s not a lot of time and you know what’s going to happen if I’m not ready.” Enjolras gives Joly a pointed look, who looks away guiltily.

“They aren’t taking sides.” It’s a moot point, though. 

“Come on, asshole. Let’s get you home to sleep a little before we have this discussion.” Feuilly’s voice is warm, and Enjolras smiles. 

After he wakes up from a seventeen-hour nap, Joly and Feuilly fill them in on their new involvement in various academic centers in New York. They talk about the art program Grantaire’s running, about how Combeferre’s work at the hospital is going really well, and about how Eponine’s first collection of short stories is going to be published within the year. 

“How’s the shop, Feuilly?” Enjolras asks as they sit at a little café near campus. 

“It’s going well. I have enough to get a puppy right now, so I’m looking at shelters,” Feuilly answers with ease. Immediately, Enjolras’s eyes light up.

“That’s amazing! Do you know what kind of dog you want?” Enjolras really wants a dog. He loves dogs.

“Nah. I don’t really care about that,” Feuilly says. “I’ll know the dog when I see him or her.” 

“I’m so jealous. I love dogs,” Enjolras gushes, and he hears his roommates snort. 

“He can’t get through the park without asking to pet every dog he sees. It’s quite a change from his normal grumpiness,” James points out as he goes about making what looks to be instant mac and cheese in a coffee mug. 

“Bahorel has a huge Bernese Mountain dog that’s super hostile towards everyone, but the minute she sees Enjolras she practically tackles him in her excitement,” Joly adds, and Enjolras smiles. 

“I miss Clifford,” he says. “She’s a good running buddy.” 

“Maybe you should get a dog, too, E,” Feuilly nudges. “It might be good for you.” 

“Apartment building rules, and we all know I can hardly keep myself alive,” Enjolras responds. “I’m gone too much, anyways, and that isn’t fair to the dog.”

“I don’t know, E,” Joly nudges. “Maybe after you come back to New York you could.” 

“Yeah.” Truth be told, Enjolras does really want a dog. But he knows that he’s too variable right now—he doesn’t sleep that much and he still forgets to eat a lot of the time and he knows that he can’t afford to make those mistakes with a puppy or a dog. But he wants that kind of companionship, the ability to love something and know it’s not going to be thrown back in his face. That’s probably why they all want Enjolras to get a dog, too. 

“Just think about it.” Feuilly’s voice is calming, and he smiles at Enjolras, who still has incredible bedhead and whose glasses are slipping down his nose. 

“I will. Do you guys want a grand tour of the city? I’ll let you know where you all should go when you’re here,” Enjolras offers. 

“Oi. Before you go, explain to me what the fuck is in your notebook,” Ellie puts in. “I can’t read it and I have no idea how it relates to the real analysis—“

“Oh. It’s because of—“ Five minutes later, Ellie is smiling because holy hell this is brilliant and Enjolras is leaving to take his friends around Boston. 

They laugh and pet dogs and eat and see the new show that everyone knows is going to sweep the Tony’s next year when it goes to Broadway. It’s the best day Enjolras has had since before everything fell apart. 

It’s only fitting that the worst follows only two weeks later.

:: ::

“Enjolras, you know he didn’t mean it.” Courfeyrac’s voice is strained.

“No, he did. If I’m late or if I put one toe out of line I’m going to lose everything,” Enjolras says, swallowing harshly against the lump in his throat. 

“You’re done with your project, though, right? Your prof proofed everything so it should be fine,” Combeferre attempts to comfort Enjolras. They’re all sitting in Enjolras’s tiny room. 

“Yeah, but we still have to rehearse the presentation. This is a big thing, Combeferre, and I’m terrified. And I thought…” 

“You didn’t think seeing them all would be this hard,” Courfeyrac finishes. “I saw your face when you saw R for the first time.” 

“He looks good. Really good. His boyfriend does, too.” Enjolras’s voice isn’t cold, it isn’t broken, but it isn’t normal, either. 

“That was a dick move, bringing him to the meet-up. It’s cool that a bunch of them are staying for the presentation, though!” Combeferre is trying really hard to lighten the mood. 

“It’s going to be fine. I’m excited to see his art, to see all of you guys again. The only things I have tomorrow are a rehearsal and my tutoring shift. I’ll be there with time to spare. You guys should go get ready for dinner now, though.” Enjolras shakes off Courfeyrac’s hand from his shoulder. 

“Enjolras, you don’t have to pretend—“

“I’m fine. Really.” Enjolras even manages a smile with it. He doesn’t mention how he felt his heart smash in two when he saw Grantaire kiss his new boyfriend, or when they held hands the entire night. He doesn’t mention how the dirty looks from multiple friends hurt when Enjolras dares to leave early enough to get some work done with his roommates. He feels like he’s a stranger to these people again, and it _hurts._

He didn’t know that when he lost R he’d lost his friends, too.

:: ::

“This is so typical. He’s late and Grantaire is a mess because of it. I’m going to kill him,” Bahorel vows, glancing at his watch. “He shouldn’t have promised to come if he couldn’t handle it.”

“Hey. Enjolras already texted that he was on his way—he said there was a problem at the tutoring center and he had to stay late. He’s going to be here any minute,” Feuilly defended his friend. 

“Doesn’t change the fact that he is late,” Eponine says from over her cocktail glass. “Even if they’re not together, he owes it to show up for something as big as this.” 

“I think R made it very clear that they’re not together. He had to know that being that PDA with Patrick would be rough for Enjolras. Especially with no warning,” Feuilly shoots back. He doesn’t want to fight, but he knows that someone has to stand up for Enjolras. 

“That isn’t Grantaire’s fault,” Bahorel practically growls. 

“Let’s not fight about this. Let’s look at Grantaire’s art and enjoy it.” Then, Feuilly just walks away.

 

“Fuck.” Enjolras is watching a nurse staple his stomach back together quickly, periodically glancing at his watch. Right now, he’s only fifteen minutes late, but it’s still fifteen minutes. 

“You have to promise that you’re going to get this checked out by an actual doctor before tomorrow. We don’t think it hit anything vital, but you need to be sure,” she warns. Honestly, she really shouldn’t be doing this, because the knife wound is deep… but in an area of his lower torso that’s mostly muscle. And Enjolras really doesn’t want to stay at the hospital. She doesn’t want to push this kid, not after she heard what he did, and at least he said there were two doctors at the event where he was going. 

“I promise.” The nurse puts in the last staple, and quickly cleans and bandages the cut. “Can I go?” 

“Yes, but take it easy. Here are the instructions on how to care for the wound. How did you get it again?” The nurse already knows, but she needs to hear it again just so she can tell it perfectly in the break room. Enjolras winces as he hops off of the bed in the ER room. 

“There was a kid at the tutoring center I volunteer at, and apparently he got in trouble with one of his dad’s friends because he showed up with a knife. I stepped in. The kid got out safely and after he landed a stab I managed to land a kick that knocked him out.” Enjolras explains quickly. Luckily, he wasn’t wearing his suit when he got stabbed, and as soon as the nurse closes the curtains she helps him put it on, even tying his tie for him. 

This is going to be a fun night.

:: ::

“You made it!” Combeferre quickly pulls Enjolras into a hug once he arrives. Fuck, that hurts. Enjolras also refused pain killers besides the numbing shot straight into the area.

“How bad is it?” Enjolras isn’t smiling. 

“Don’t worry about it. Come on, I’ll get Courfeyrac to give you a grand tour.” Enjolras manages a smile, and he lets his friends lead him around the different works of art. He gets to the last one before his breath is taken completely away.

It’s a singular tree against a mosaic of a sunset, so abstract and gorgeous in its visualization, but Enjolras knows where this is. This is that time they went upstate and slept with the stars. There was the one tree against the nothingness of their campsite. He sees the raging colors against the dying of the light and he can feel Grantaire’s hand steadfastly in his, remember their conversations and their ponderings and the sound of Grantaire’s breaths in his ear. 

“This is my favorite one.” It’s Grantaire, without Patrick. He’s looking at Enjolras with the same awe that Enjolras is looking at the huge painting with. 

“It’s… It took my breath away.” Well, Enjolras wasn’t really breathing deeply beforehand anyways because that makes the staples pull, but it’s true. “The entire exhibit is gorgeous.” 

“I did this one two days after… after we broke up.” Grantaire’s hair is still messy, but he’s cleanly shaven and his suit fits him perfectly. Enjolras probably looks a mess; he’s wearing his glasses, his hair is probably sweaty, and his suit is rumpled. 

“I remember that night.” Enjolras’s voice is breathless. They stare at the painting together for a while, until Enjolras can bear to look into those bright, gorgeous eyes again.

“I’m so glad that all this happened. I know it probably doesn’t mean much, but I’m so proud of you. And I’m sorry I was so late.” All it takes are those words, spoken softly, before Grantaire wraps his arms around Enjolras. Enjolras wants to melt into that embrace, but the there’s a shift in his motion that causes more than one staple to pop, and he gasps and steps back. After that, all it takes is one look at Grantaire’s hurt face before Enjolras is making a quick retreat into the bathroom so he can hide the growing red stain on his white shirt. 

As soon as Enjolras is in one of the tiny, clean stalls, he texts Courfeyrac to ask if he’ll discretely ask Combeferre for his first aid kit (he’s talking to Bahorel and Bossuet right now and pulling him away would be a red flag) and for Courfeyrac to come to the bathroom. 

Courfeyrac doesn’t respond, but there’s the read receipt that lets him know that Courfeyrac’s probably silently flipping shit, but he’s on it. One minute later, Courfeyrac is there. 

“Enjolras?” he calls nervously. “Where are you?”

It takes an extreme amount of effort, but Enjolras manages to get up enough from the lid of the toilet seat to open the stall door. 

“What the fuck?” Courfeyrac’s voice is a screech once he sees the red on Enjolras’s shirt. It isn’t that much, but it’s very noticeable against the white.

“Some staples popped out when Grantaire hugged me,” Enjolras gets out through gritted teeth. 

“Staples—what the—no. I’m getting Combeferre—“ Courfeyrac’s voice is panicked, but Enjolras cuts him off.

“No! You can’t! He’s talking to them right now and they already hate me for being late. I’m not ruining Grantaire’s art show with this when he already thinks I hate him too much to let him give me a hug,” Enjolras rambles, and Courfeyrac swears before getting out gauze and has Enjolras apply pressure to the reopened wound. 

“Why the hell aren’t you at a hospital right now?” Courfeyrac says as he looks for antiseptic or stitching materials or something to help his friend. 

“I was already. The nurse said it probably just tore the muscle, and I was already late, so I left,” Enjolras explains. “She did say I had to get it checked out by Combeferre or Joly or another doctor by tomorrow.” 

“Then please let me get Combeferre. Or Joly. I can’t find anything to even begin to fix this, and that blood stain is pretty big, E.” Courfeyrac is pleading with his friend right now. “I can’t even see the wound.” 

“Joly would panic and then everyone would know,” Enjolras says. “Here. I think I can get the shirt off.” Enjolras tries to, but it hurts too much and Courfeyrac has to help him with it. Once he sees his friend’s torso, he sees the newly well-defined abs, but also how Enjolras has lost any form of truly visible fat. It’s a little scary how evident his muscles are, even when he isn’t flexing. Gently, he guides Enjolras’s hand to hold a new bandage to the wound.

“I can get Combeferre here discretely. And I’m going to do it.” That’s all Courfeyrac says before jetting out of the bathroom again. Enjolras feels like an exposed nerve, sitting there shirtless and holding the blood inside of his body. 

Thankfully, no one enters the bathroom until Courfeyrac returns with his boyfriend, less than five minutes later. 

“You’re an idiot,” is the only thing Combeferre says to his best friend as he removes his jacket and rolls up his sleeves. “How did this happen?”

“A kid pissed off his dad’s friend so he showed up at the tutoring center with a knife. I stepped in,” Enjolras explains, letting out a grunt of pain as Combeferre pulls the bandage away from the wound and removes the loose staples. 

“Well, if it hit anything important we would probably know by now,” Combeferre says. “But I don’t actually carry around surgical thread and needles in my fucking portable first aid kit, so we’re going to have to go back to a hospital for that.”

“There’s some at the apartment. ‘Cause of boxing and shit,” Enjolras gets out, unable to look his best friends in the eye. 

“Enjolras, we’re not going to—“ Courfeyrac tries to reason with Enjolras, but Combeferre cuts him off.

“It’ll work. How did you get them to let you leave?” Combeferre is tightly wrapping gauze around the new bandage, trying to keep it on tight enough to slow down the bleeding. 

“I can be persuasive,” Enjolras mumbles, which causes his friend to snort. 

“I’m assuming you don’t have any particularly nice painkillers running through you right now?” Combeferre’s in full-on doctor mode, helping Enjolras back into his clothing. Courfeyrac is hiding the bloodstain with Enjolras’s jacket.

“No. We can’t all leave—they’re going to know and it’s going to—“ 

“Enjolras!” Courfeyrac’s roars loudly enough to scare Enjolras into silence. “Don’t worry about them right now. This isn’t your fault and being so worried about them isn’t helping. You just need to focus on getting out of here without popping any more staples. Okay?” Both of Courfeyrac’s hands are on Enjolras’s shoulders, and he’s forcing Enjolras to look him in the eyes. 

“No. They’ll know and they’ll ask lots of questions and—“ It’s obvious that Enjolras is freaking out.

“They’re going to find out eventually, E. There’s no way that you’re going to be up and running for at least a few days, or a few weeks,” Combeferre tries to reason with Enjolras. 

“They don’t have to know that.” Enjolras’s voice is shaking and Courfeyrac’s hands are all but holding him up against the wall of the bathroom. “Oh, fuck. That’s another one.” 

“I know that you think you need them less than he does, but you don’t have to try to be so goddamn stoic about everything, especially when you have a fucking hole in your body.” Courfeyrac’s voice isn’t cold; it’s soft and warm and it shakes just a little as he looks at Enjolras falling to pieces. His glasses are slipping down his nose and his short hair is plastered to his forehead with sweat. Holy shit he has to be in pain. 

“I’m fine.” But the façade is completely gone now, and Enjolras’s voice cracks harshly. He angrily swipes at a stray tear.

“No, you’re not. I’m not going to lie to you, Enjolras. You tore muscles and tendons in your stomach, and moving around is going to make it worse. Stitching it up is going to hurt like hell if you don’t go to a hospital, and you’re not going to be up on your feet unless you want to end up right back in a situation like this,” Combeferre explains, and sees Enjolras’s shoulders slump. Immediately, Combeferre gives his friend a light hug, letting Enjolras cling to him with all of his strength. Of course, that’s when the door swings open.

It’s Grantaire.

“What the fuck was that—wait is that blood?” His voice goes from angry to concerned in less than a second. “That’s definitely blood.” 

“It’s nothing…” Enjolras says. “I’m sorry about what happened. I swear it wasn’t you,” he gets out as he shrugs off Courfeyrac’s hands. Grantaire doesn’t fail to notice the wince as Enjolras stands up fully. 

After that display, Grantaire doesn’t even look to Enjolras for a real answers, but straight to Combeferre and Courfeyrac.

“Well, he wasn’t wrong about the last part. But it wasn’t with him, either,” Courfeyrac explains with a sigh. 

“That does nothing to explain the concerning amount of blood on his shirt,” Grantaire says, moving forward to look. 

“Please don’t freak out about this. I swear I’m fine. You should go enjoy your opening,” Enjolras says, struggling to keep his voice level. 

“I don’t give a fuck about that if you’re hurt. I know things ended awfully but I didn’t think you wouldn’t talk to me for goddamn _months_ , or that you think I’d rather go drink champagne and make up bullshit about my own art if you’re bleeding out right now.” Grantaire says it all in one breathless go. 

“I wasn’t trying to ignore you, but I think we both… we needed to learn to stand on our own again, and I didn’t want to jeopardize that for you or myself.” There’s a pause as Enjolras takes as deep of a calming breath as he can muster. “There was just an issue at the tutoring center. It’s fine, but when you hugged me some staples popped so Combeferre’s gonna fix it.” Enjolras doesn’t look at anyone when he says it.

“Staples? And you fucking showed up here instead of being at a goddamn hospital?” Grantaire’s voice is higher than Enjolras has heard it since that time he had to explain to Grantaire he was throwing up violently because he’d had eight expresso shots that day. 

“I wanted to be here,” Enjolras says quietly, and that’s all it takes before Grantaire has a silent, secret conversation with Courfeyrac via facial expressions. Then, he wraps his strong, warm arms gently around Enjolras, holding his head to his chest, before moving to exit the small bathroom. 

“Hey… it’s going to be fine. We’ll keep you updated,” Combeferre says, looking seriously at Grantaire. “It’s not as bad as you think. Just… please don’t tell anyone else just yet.” Grantaire’s face darkens, but he nods before he ducks back out of the room.

:: ::

“Help me clear off the table and disinfect it,” Combeferre says. Five more of Enjolras’s staples popped, leaving only one intact. In an instant, James and Ellie clear off papers and stuff. Enjolras is holding a bloody piece of gauze to the wound, his breathing shallow with pain.

“If you pass out while he’s doing this, we’re going straight to the hospital,” Courfeyrac warns. “You’ve lost too much blood to do otherwise.” 

“C, now you help me get him on the table,” Combeferre orders. Enjolras immediately starts to stumble off from his perch on the countertop, but Courfeyrac and Combeferre’s manhandling of him does the brunt of the work. “Lay flat and do not tense your muscles, or the stitches are going to be messy and hurt more.” 

“We’ve probably got some Percocet,” James offers immediately. “I broke my hand a few months ago.” Once Combeferre nods, he’s rifling through the cupboards, before pulling out the small bottle. “Aw, fuck, apparently it’s empty.” 

“It’s okay,” Courfeyrac says once James starts running his hands through his hair anxiously. “Combeferre’s almost done sterilizing the supplies and then it’s just cleaning the wound and stitching it up.” 

“We’ll be in the living room,” Ellie says softly, dragging James out with her. Then, there is silence as Combeferre readies himself and Courfeyrac pulls up a chair right next to Enjolras’s head. 

“Okay. This isn’t going to be fun, but I’ll be right here. You can squeeze my hand as hard as you want,” Courfeyrac says, brushing the stray curls out of Enjolras’s eyes. Enjolras turns his head and nods, allowing Courfeyrac to loosely clasp one of his hands in his own. Once Combeferre starts pouring homemade saline solution into the wound, Enjolras grips back _hard_.

In a matter of twenty minutes, the wound is stitched up and covered well, an ice pack trying to help with the swelling and bruising surrounding the area. It’s obvious that the pain has finally hit Enjolras with its full force, as he hasn’t let go of his tight grip on Courfeyrac’s hand. 

It’s the exact moment when Combeferre is washing the blood off of his hands in the sink when the buzzer rings. Ellie immediately runs and deals with it, and Courfeyrac hopes to whatever is up there that it’s not Grantaire. Thankfully, the door reveals Feuilly. 

“Grantaire told me. He told me to get over here, and he said he’d explain what he could to Les Amis once they’re back at the hotel,” is all he says before he moves and looks at Enjolras. 

“Can I just stay here?” Enjolras asks Combeferre. He really doesn’t want to move right now, or in the foreseeable future.

“No,” Feuilly responds instinctively. “You’re not going to lie on the table all night, E.” 

“Let’s at least get you to the couch,” Courfeyrac says, and after a few minutes, the combined effort of Feuilly and Courfeyrac manages to transfer Enjolras to the couch, after they put down a towel in case of residual bleeding. Enjolras is sweaty, shaking, but upright during the procedure, clearly trying to be helpful. 

“Uh, I know this isn’t a good time to bring this up, but are you going to be okay for Tuesday?” Ellie asks as Combeferre resituates the ice pack. 

“Yeah,” Enjolras says defiantly, which elicits a deep sigh from both Feuilly and Combeferre. 

“That isn’t likely, Enjolras. You were _stabbed_ ,” Combeferre reminds his friend. 

“I promise I’ll do everything you say—rest, eat, whatever—until then, but I’m going to the presentation on Tuesday,” Enjolras responds, his voice as firm as he can force it to be.

“One out of two, cher. Don’t push it,” Courfeyrac says once it’s clear Combeferre’s about to argue, before turning to Enjolras. 

“Well, drink this. It’ll help with the blood loss,” Combeferre says, thrusting a juice bottle into Enjolras’s hands. “Don’t go to sleep until you drink all of it.”

“How was R?” Enjolras asks between sips. He learns quickly that that’s the best option, because otherwise it pulls at the stitches.

“He was remarkably fine about it. He’s worried, but he promised he’d explain what happened to them. I think he’s pissed,” Feuilly responds easily as they all go about making themselves comfortable in the fort of papers and blankets that always exists in the apartment. James and Ellie give each other a look, but they don’t leave. 

“What? What’s he going to do?” Enjolras tries to sit up suddenly, but all it takes is Combeferre’s hands on his shoulders to keep him down. 

“Well, he’s realized why you wouldn’t just stay home, and he’s pissed that they did that to you for months. He’s really doing well now, E. So he’s going to deal with this,” Feuilly explains. “I’m going to go over there soon, too.” 

“No need to.” This time it’s Courfeyrac’s voice. “I’m getting a fucking barrage of texts that mean they know.”

“They’re not coming over here,” Combeferre says. “Not right now.” 

“Too late for that,” Feuilly comments. “They’re already on their way.” 

“Fuck,” Enjolras whispers. 

“Enjolras, you don’t have to deal with this right now. You’re _not_ dealing with this right now,” Courfeyrac decides. 

“Should we really be moving him again, though? Wasn’t the moving around what caused all of this in the first place?” Feuilly asks, as Enjolras looks down at his hands. He can’t even deny he’s glad they’re not letting him do this right now. 

“No, but that’s not going to come close to how bad it would be to have him stay and let them all invade,” Combeferre wages. “Could we move him to his room?” 

“If we’re going to do it it’s gotta be quick. Their hotel is only a five minute walk across the bridge,” Ellie says. “Could we just put up a fucking curtain or something?” 

“That’s never stopped Joly before,” Courfeyrac mutters darkly. 

“Fuck, it’s fine. I can move.” Enjolras’s voice is strained; even as he tries to sit up completely he feels the pull of the stitches and his body gives up for him. 

“No,” Combeferre says in the voice he normally reserves for the small children in the ER when he needs them to understand that _no, they cannot pull out the needle in their arm even though it stings_. 

“Then what do we do?” Courfeyrac’s voice is high and it tremors. 

“Fuck it. Courf, you get his head and, Feuilly, grab his feet,” Combeferre orders. “Is his room a mess?” 

“Actually, no. Well, his bed is cleaned off,” Ellie stutters through, as the two other men easily carry Enjolras and lay him down on his own bed. At the first moment of movement, Enjolras lets out a groan, but he grits his teeth and lets it happen. 

“Thanks,” Enjolras grunts, head instantly nuzzling into his pillow. Sighing, Courfeyrac drags a chair into the room, and he just sits down next to Enjolras. 

“I’ll stay with him, so he doesn’t make a jail break. You all go deal with this shit.” His voice is really tired, and Enjolras immediately turns towards the sound, a frown creased into his brow. “Yeah, you don’t get to say anything Mr. Fuck the Hospital.” 

“We’ll stand guard,” James offers, and the rest quickly fill out of the room. Just in time to, because they’re not in the small living area for thirty seconds before the buzzer rings and Grantaire’s pissed off voice announces that they’re all there. 

“Where is he?” is the first thing Joly asks, as soon as they’re all let into the apartment. 

“Let’s go talk in the kitchen,” Combeferre suggests, even though his voice leaves no room for argument. 

“No, we want to see him,” Bahorel insists, trying to push through Feuilly to get to the hallway. “Is he okay?” 

“Yes, but we don’t want him… overexcited right now,” Feuilly says, still manhandling Bahorel. “Let’s just go to the kitchen.” 

“Guys, go the goddamn kitchen.” Grantaire’s voice is full of something dangerous, so, for once, everyone quietly shuffles into the kitchen. He lingers for a moment, as does Combeferre. “Is he okay?” For the first time since the break-up, Combeferre can see the wildness in Grantaire’s eyes. 

“He will be.” And with a brief hand on Grantaire’s shoulder, Combeferre stalks into the kitchen. 

“We want to see him,” Eponine says, her voice matching the steel in the way Combeferre’s shoulders are set. “You can’t just decide that we can’t.” 

“Is he okay?” Marius’s voice is quiet. “What happened? Grantaire told us what he could, but it wasn’t much.” 

“Okay, I’m only going to say this once. Enjolras was doing his tutoring shift, and the kid he was working with’s dad's friend showed up pissed off and with a knife. Enjolras stepped in. Then, because he both a, wanted to go to Grantaire’s opening, and b, was told by _certain parties_ shit was going to hit the fan if he wasn’t on-time and perfect, he showed up after having a gash stapled at the hospital. Then, Grantaire hugged him, and somehow that popped a bunch of staples. I’ve stitched him back together, but what he needs is rest, not stress. That’s why you can’t see him.” Throughout the entire explanation, Combeferre’s voice is cold. 

“Fuck, he has to know that I meant it like—“ Bahorel starts, because he was that ‘certain party’. 

“No, he didn’t. Ever since that night, he knows who took what sides, and while I appreciate you guys looking out for me, you left Enjolras on his own. He’s scared of you.” This time, it’s Grantaire who steps up. 

“Come on, R, that’s bullshit—“ Bossuet starts. 

“Is it?” Cosette’s voice is quiet, and it’s clear by her face that she’s figured it out. “We haven’t really been talking to him, and we were worried about the show. I never thought… we all always assume that Enjolras is fine…” 

“She’s right. I’ve known Enjolras basically my entire life, and this is the only time I’ve seen him like this.” Combeferre swore that his voice wouldn’t shake, that he would be strong, and yet it happens. “Do you know what he said the entire way here? He said, ‘they’re going to be so mad. I can’t lose them, too.’ You’re supposed to be his _friends_.” 

“Okay, so we fucked up.” It’s Bossuet, rubbing a hand over his head. “But what can we do?” 

“That doesn’t mean we don’t deserve to see if he’s okay,” Bahorel adds in. “I don’t know about everyone else, but I’m still scared shitless that there’s internal bleeding or something. He got _stabbed_.” 

“Yeah, he was. And he needs to _rest_ , not be overwhelmed,” Grantaire says, when it’s clear Combeferre is trying too hard to just keep it together. 

“One at a time? If he wants to see us?” Cosette needles. 

“I’ll ask him,” Combeferre relents, turning quickly on his heel and out the door. When he gives a nod to James and Ellie, who quietly slip out to the kitchen to work that front, he slowly cracks open Enjolras’s bedroom door. Courfeyrac is massaging Enjolras’s scalp, trying to ease the pain enough so that Enjolras can fall asleep. It’s an overwhelmingly tender and private moment, and Combeferre feels like he’s intruding. But Courfeyrac simply turns his head, trying to smile at his boyfriend; in return, Combeferre moves to Enjolras’s other side, and Enjolras turns as soon as he feels the bed dip. 

“Hey,” Combeferre greets, gently carding his fingers through Enjolras’s hair, now that Courfeyrac has stopped. “They’re worried, E. They want to see you, but only if you want to see them. One at a time, however many as you want.” 

“R,” is all Enjolras mumbles. 

“Grantaire, okay. Anyone else?” Courfeyrac asks, but Enjolras just shakes his head. 

“I can’t.” It’s like the words are ripped from Enjolras’s throat. “I wish I could, but I can’t… it hurts too much.” Enjolras takes a sharp, shallow breath; immediately, Courfeyrac returns to kneading Enjolras’s scalp, murmuring gently to him.

“Hey, it’s okay,” he repeats over and over in that tender, low voice that Courfeyrac reserves for moments like these, when Enjolras is an exposed nerve, when he is this threadbare. It’s so uniquely Courfeyrac that Combeferre feels his chest expand suddenly with warmth and love for him. 

“I’ll let them know.” And so Combeferre leaves again. In the kitchen, James and Ellie are trying their best to explain what research they’re presenting, but as soon as Combeferre enters it all goes silent. 

“He wants to talk to Grantaire,” is all he says. “He’s not… he’s not up to anyone else.” Combeferre is expecting another battle with those words, but Joly just nods. 

“It’s okay. We’ll be back tomorrow, if he wants. We’re staying until his presentation on Tuesday,” he says. “We understand.” 

That, Combeferre thinks, is the beginnings of a broken house knitting itself back together.

:: ::

Grantaire slips into Enjolras’s bedroom as quietly as he can. Looking around, he can see it’s the kind of warzone that theirs used to be when Grantaire would go out of town and Combeferre was too busy to drug Enjolras’s tea. But Enjolras, who’s still laying down, just smiles a little.

“Courf?” he asks, and Courfeyrac just sighs. 

“No. I will not help you sit up and pull on your stitches right now. I will, however, give you some privacy,” he says with a grin and a gentle squeeze to Enjolras’s shoulder, before he does the same to R and walks out of the room. Grantaire knows, though, that he’s not going far. 

“If I can’t sit up, will you lay down?” That’s so Enjolras that Grantaire’s heart thuds against its ribcage because _he missed this_ , and he does as the blond asks, making sure to keep room between and putting his hands behind his head. 

“I’m sorry,” Enjolras says. His head turns to look at Grantaire, and Grantaire can see the red rimming Enjolras’s stormy eyes, the freckles on his nose, and the way his forehead is creased against the pain. “I’m sorry for everything.” 

“No, I’m sorry,” Grantaire replies, and Enjolras can see how his green eyes are absolutely wild. It’s been a long time since they laid like this, and it was something that they used to do every single day. Enjolras used to know Grantaire’s face, the intricacies and curves and specks in his eyes, better than he knew prime numbers, but apparently it doesn’t take long to forget. 

“I shouldn’t have ignored you. I want… I can’t… I don’t know if I can do it if you’re not in my life at all,” Enjolras stutters out. 

“Me, neither. And I get it. I wish you didn’t have to deal with this. They shouldn’t have abandoned you,” Grantaire admits, and Enjolras winces as he tries to turn more to talk to Grantaire. 

“Are we going to… be okay?” Enjolras’s breath is shallow, and Grantaire just chuckles. “Ah, fuck. I didn’t know getting stabbed would hurt this much.” 

Grantaire can’t help it; he bursts out laughing. 

“You’re a dumbass. Of course getting stabbed hurts like hell,” is all he can say, the grin on his face seeming extra wide given their proximity. “Can I see it?” 

“Yeah. It doesn’t look cool right now, though, because ‘Ferre sewed it back together,” Enjolras explains, his face finding a smile to match Grantaire’s. Even then, his movements are slow as he pulls the bottom of the tee-shirt up. 

“Shit, dude. That’s intense,” is all Grantaire says, before sitting up. “I should let you rest, though.” 

“You don’t have to go,” Enjolras says quickly, rolling over to grab Grantaire’s wrist. Then he promptly winces, and Grantaire rolls his eyes before gently easing Enjolras back to his back. 

“Easy there, tiger. How about I stay until you fall asleep?” It’s a simple proposition, but a major step forward, and Enjolras nods. 

Slowly, hesitantly, Grantaire’s arms go wrap around Enjolras, his chin finding a spot between Enjolras’s collarbones. In an instant, Enjolras feels the warmth from Grantaire’s strong, calloused hands melting his muscles in the same way that Courfeyrac’s scalp massages do. He can smell the faint scent of Grantaire’s cologne, of his shampoo, and he remembers what life was like before. He remembers the smiles, the morning coffee, and feeling _happy_. It’s a breath of fresh air, he feeling of running through the streets of New York at night and feeling like nothing could tear him down because he is young and he is bold and he is in love. 

He thinks that, maybe, he can get there again. Laughter will drip from his eyes and his lips and Enjolras won’t care if Grantaire is in love with someone else because he knows there’s always this particular brand of nostalgia. 

“Go to sleep,” Grantaire murmurs into his shoulder. “I can hear you thinking.” 

Yeah, Enjolras thinks he’s going to be okay.

**Author's Note:**

> Please talk to me about this here or at thoseunheard.tumblr.com. Thanks! (I also have a mental image of like, at Enjolras's presentation Bahorel or Grantaire like helping him up there and down and Les Amis being super proud parents despite everything that's happened. I also don't like the ending at all so feel free to talk to me about that.


End file.
